Boyfriend Material
by darnedchild
Summary: Sherlock has made it quite clear that he's not boyfriend material, but that was before Molly needed to find a tactful way to avoid the attentions of a persistent admirer. Perhaps it's just a matter of semantics.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Written for Glitterkitty4ever, for winning my 250 Followers on Tumblr giveaway. This fic takes place after TFP and is very nearly canon compliant. There is one teeny, tiny, huge, gigantic difference that makes this an AU – Mary Watson lived.

 **Boyfriend Material**

"Hi, honey! We're home!" Mary called out as she, John, and Sherlock bustled through the front door of the Watson home.

Molly handed Rosie another block to add to her precariously balanced tower, then stood up and stretched out the random kinks that tended to appear when one spent a prolonged period of time playing on the floor with a toddler. "Please tell me you've brought the food?"

"Double order of cashew shrimp, a pair of summer rolls, an order of crab cheese wontons, and extra peanut sauce. As requested." John hefted several plastic bags emblazoned with the logo of the Chinese place Sherlock favoured. "Not that I'm judging, but that seems like an awful lot of food, Molly."

"That sounds like judging. Doesn't that sound like judging?" Mary teased as she hung up her jacket.

Molly hurried to take the bags from John so he could take his coat off. "Did Sherlock get anything for himself?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as John shook his head.

"I ordered extra because _someone_ tends to be a wonton thief." She giggled at her own joke, to the point that it threatened to turn into a small, not-at-all ladylike snort. "Get it? Wonton, like wanton, but . . . No? Just me?"

"Molly," Sherlock rumbled, but it lacked any real censor. She thought she caught a glimpse of amusement in his expression before he took the bags from her and headed toward the kitchen.

They told her about the case over dinner—former six that unexpectedly turned into an eight that morning, which is why John had called to see if Molly could babysit at the last minute. Mary still had a long way to go before she'd be chasing down a fleeing extortionist—spending weeks in a medically induced coma while you recovered from a nearly fatal gunshot wound was a _bit_ hard on a body—but she would always be an exceptionally observant woman and a third set of eyes had been needed.

Sherlock grabbed his own plate and didn't even try to be subtle when he helped himself to half of Molly's meal. She had to smack his hand away from her last summer roll.

Mary offered Rosie a spoonful of something mushy and green, then patiently scraped the resulting cheerfully dribbled mess off Rosie's chin with a soft, "Silly girl, blowing raspberries at uncle Sherlock." She loaded up the spoon for a second go and looked at Molly over the toddler's head. With a completely obvious tilt of her chin and jerk of her eyes, Mary indicated that Molly should bring up the topic they'd discussed over the phone the night before.

Molly pushed her plate toward Sherlock, a silent invitation for him to finish her cashew shrimp. She took a deep breath and gave John her most sincere 'please help me, I'm desperate' smile. "So, not to change the topic, but . . . John, I need you to be my boyfriend."

His chopsticks froze halfway toward his mouth, and John gaped at her. He slowly lowered the chopsticks to his plate and turned his head toward her as if he wasn't sure he'd heard her correctly the first time. "Pardon?"

"I need a significant other, I'm asking you." Why was that such a difficult concept to grasp? Mary picked it up almost immediately. "There's this guy, Michael. We started corresponding a few years ago, after a paper I'd authored appeared in the _International Journal of Surgical Pathology_. He seemed really nice in his emails, and we'd talked a few times on the phone. Just the usual sort of conversation between friends, you know. Complaining about the people at work, books we'd read, that sort of thing. Nothing that even hinted at romantic."

"Because you had a fiancé, and he knew you'd shoot him down if he tried," Sherlock interrupted. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his ankles under the table.

"That didn't occur to me at the time, all right?" She returned her attention to John. "I didn't mention the breakup when it happened because I really didn't feel comfortable talking about it while it was still fresh, especially with someone I'd never even met. When I finally did mention it one night, I'd been having a really bad day and was a little tipsy, and Michael was being very sympathetic and he called and . . . well, one thing lead to another and things got a little personal."

Sherlock snorted, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "I bet he'd been gasping for his chance." under his breath. Molly ignored him.

"The next day, I made it clear that I normally didn't do that sort of thing and we agreed it was just a onetime aberration. Things went back to normal between us, just casual emails. But then Mary got shot-" Molly winced and everyone very pointedly looked anywhere but at each other. "-and ended up in hospital for nearly two months. Not to mention the Smith debacle. And then . . . the other thing."

It was immediately understood without a single word of explanation that 'the other thing' could only refer to the Sherrinford incident. Mary and John might not have been privy to the extremely stilted conversation that followed— _"I did mean what I said, Molly. I love you. But I'm not sure I'll ever be able to give you the kind of relationship you want. You deserve so much better than I could offer you right now. I care about you too much to make a promise I can't keep, not to you. I'm just not boyfriend material, Molly, and I never will be. I will understand if you want to cut me from your life entirely, if that's what you need. I'll do anything to keep from hurting you again. I just . . . It would mean everything to me if you would still be willing to be my friend."—_ but they knew Molly and Sherlock had reached an understanding after the phone call, and their friendship had survived the fall out.

And now, six months later, they were actually closer than before.

Molly suspected it had something to do with no longer having to hide the worst kept secret in the world from the most observant (yet emotionally clueless) man she'd ever met. The stress of that had weighed on her often over the years, and it was almost a relief to have it all out in the open.

Almost.

Obviously, she would have preferred a slightly different outcome from finding out the man she'd loved for years loved her back; but there were considerably worse things that could have happened. For the first time since losing part of her heart to Sherlock, Molly knew exactly where she stood with him; and while it wasn't everything she'd dreamt of, it was good. He still asked for her help at Barts, still spent evenings at her place once or twice a week, still invited her over to his if he had a particularly interesting experiment to show her. He would make a few sour faces whenever she went on a date, but their current rule was absolutely no verbalized deductions until at least the third date (baring another psychopathic criminal mastermind or someone who hated cats, exceptions were to be made for either of those).

Other than the occasional twinge of lustful thoughts when he was looking and acting particularly shag-able, Molly was actually really happy with where their relationship had ended up.

She realized the other three were staring at her. "Sorry. Between babysitting Rosie and Sherlock-"

"I did not need a ba-" Sherlock's grumble died on his tongue at the narrow-eyed glare Mary threw him. Considering it was her mistakenly delivered DVD that had kick started his latest decline into substance abuse, Molly wasn't absolutely positive Mary was in a position to be casting stones. John started to open his mouth, but Molly sent a glare of her own and he wisely clamped his lips shut.

" _Anyway_ , I barely talked to him for ages. Then two months ago I went to Brussels for that symposium, and there he was."

Mary gestured with the spoon of baby mush—Rosie's eyes eagerly following the movement, her mouth open wide in anticipation—and urged Molly to continue. "Tell them what he did."

Molly felt Sherlock tense beside her, but his expression remained disinterested and bored.

"He ran into me in the hotel lobby, before I even had a chance to check in, and asked me out to dinner. It was kind of nice. It had been awhile since anyone really seemed interested in me, that way, and I was flattered."

Sherlock huffed. Molly ignored him, although she did see John frown at his friend. Mary continued to babble soft, encouraging words to Rosie as the little girl ate her dinner.

"Catching up over a meal was lovely." Molly paused to gather her thoughts. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and bit down as she tried to find the right words to describe her concern. "The next morning, though, he was right there when I came down to the lobby. All day, every time I turned around, he was there. He attended the same lectures, which isn't that far-fetched, I guess. We both work in pathology, it's not inconceivable that we'd have chosen similar schedules."

"Doubtful." Sherlock shook his head. "The universe is rarely so lazy. Did you tell him you were planning to attend the symposium?" He rushed on without waiting for Molly to answer. "Of course you did. It wouldn't take much effort for this Michael person to figure out which talks you would sign-up for, you do tend to ramble on when you're discussing something you're interested in. All he would have had to do was pay attention."

Molly took a deep breath and struggled to reminded herself that he was probably trying to be helpful in his own annoying Sherlockish way. "Okay. However it happened, he was everywhere. We went to dinner again-"

"Why?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Because she was hungry. Now, do shut up." Mary smiled at Molly. "Go on."

"I can't explain it, exactly, but something about him just started to make me uneasy." Molly shrugged. Saying it out loud made her feel a little silly. "So I made up some excuse and did my best to avoid him the rest of the weekend."

"And you need John to play the dutiful boyfriend now because. . . ?" Sherlock drew out the last word in such a way that it made Molly want to roll her eyes.

"Because he sent an email to let me know that he's coming here for two weeks to be a guest lecturer for several classes. Apparently, he told Doctor Burtan what good friends we are, and now I have officially been given the privilege of showing him around London during his visit. He invited me to dinner and I panicked. I told him I was dating someone, and he said to bring them along." She realized she'd been picking at the cuticle on her thumb while she talked, and quickly shoved her hands under her thighs as she leaned toward John imploringly. "All you have to do is come out with us a few times, pretend you can't wait to get me alone, and maybe mention you used to be a solider and you enjoy chasing down violent criminals for fun. Please?"

John started shaking his head before she'd finished talking. "Look, Molly, as much as I'd like to help, I'm married."

"Don't worry about that, luv." Mary wiped off Rosie's face and hands. "I'm the one who told Molly to go ahead and ask you."

He looked back and forth between his wife and Molly. "I . . . What?"

Molly nodded. "I actually considered asking Mary at first, but we realized I'd been using a masculine pronoun every time I mentioned that I was dating someone to Michael."

"Personally, I think I'd make a very handsome man," Mary cut in. She silently indicated that John should free Rosie from her high chair so that Mary clean up the mess the little girl had left behind. "But we decided that was more complicated than it really needed to be. Especially since we had a perfectly good strong, handsome, kind man at our disposal: one who technically owes Molly a lot—a huge amount of a lot—for all the time she spent watching Rosie while I was in hospital." Mary ended on a slight uptick; as if she were unsure of whether or not John was buying it, but she was hopeful nonetheless.

"You asked my wife to pretend to be your boyfriend?" John seemed to be stuck on the wrong detail. No wonder Sherlock got frustrated with people in general, it was rather annoying when someone refused to follow along.

"No, I _almost_ asked your wife to pretend to be my significant other." Mary and Molly exchanged another look, this one full of humour.

John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly trying to figure out the best way to get out of his present situation. Mary's entire expression softened as she watched her husband, her earlier grin turning into a loving smile.

Molly would have considered letting him off the hook if she wasn't so desperate.

"I'll do it."

Three sets of eyes of turned to look at Sherlock.

Surely he hadn't said what she'd thought he'd said. Molly's gaze darted toward Mary and John, but they had the same confused look on their faces. Although Mary's quickly turned mischievous. "I'm sorry, you'll do what?" Molly asked.

"Pretend to be your . . ." He waved his hand toward John. "That thing you were asking him to do."

"Boyfriend," Mary helpfully supplied.

Sherlock blanched. "Please do not use that word."

"Right, how could I forget? You're not boyfriend material." Molly's voice may have been tinged with just the slightest bit of bitterness. Or perhaps more than the slightest bit, judging from the way Mary inhaled sharply and gave Sherlock her 'I'm very disappointed in you' look. John appeared as oblivious as ever ( _What did Sherlock say? John sees but does not observe?_ ), but Mary must have put two and two together and come up with the general gist of Sherlock's 'It's not you, it's me' speech.

Molly was rather annoyed with herself. She had thought she'd moved past all that ages ago. She'd been dating and enjoying herself, and quite honestly there were stretches of days when she'd been so caught up in work and her newly invigorated social life that she didn't think of Sherlock at all. Of course he'd have to remind her that she still loved him by popping up at Barts with a kiss on the cheek and a gentle smile meant just for her, or making himself comfortable at her place when he wanted to spend the night away from Baker Street because of one excuse or another. Several times she'd come home from a date, only to find him stretched out on her sofa with Toby purring away on his stomach.

It had to be that his abhorrence for the word 'boyfriend' that set her off.

She forced the irritation away with a small shake of her head. "So, the b-word is out. What am I supposed to call you then?"

He considered it for a moment. "You used significant other, earlier."

Molly laughed, then realized he was serious. "No one actually introduces someone as their significant other, Sherlock. Not in real life."

"Fine." Sherlock leaned back in his chair as if he were already growing bored with the discussion. "Lover, then."

She rolled her eyes. "This isn't an episode of _Eastenders_."

"Could be, though," Mary offered. "I'd watch it."

"Not helping," Molly bit out with a narrow-eyed glare at her friend.

Mary grinned back. "Wasn't meant to."


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

He was late.

Sherlock had assured her that even though he'd caught a case the day before, that he would be at her place in time to go over a few details to 'get their story straight' before leaving for the restaurant.

But here she was, settling into the chair across from Michael without her promised escort.

Michael smiled and gestured toward the empty chair to her right. "I thought your boyfriend was going to be joining us?"

"He, uh, got held up with work." She looked around for a waiter, hoping to flag one down and order a glass of wine. Or three.

He nodded and tutted in sympathy, but Molly got the impression that he didn't really believe her. Almost as if he suspected that she'd made up having a boyfriend. Which she had, but it was a little insulting that he thought so.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips. "He's consulting with Scotland Yard on a case at the moment. You know how it is."

Michael reached for his glass, a pointed reminder that she really wanted a drink of her own. "He's a cop?"

"Detective," Molly automatically corrected. She finally made eye contact with a waiter and watched him head toward their table. "Consulting detective."

The waiter stopped at her side and let her request a glass of wine, then offered to bring Michael another. "Are you ready to order?"

Michael said yes as Molly shook her head no. They stared at each other for a long moment, long enough for the waiter to shift his weight from foot to foot. "I can come back."

"Yes, please." She tore her attention away from Michael to smile apologetically. "We're still waiting for someone."

The waiter murmured that he'd return shortly with their drinks, and quickly edged away from the table. Molly watched him walk off, wishing she could join him.

"You look lovely. Really lovely."

Coming from someone else, someone who didn't make her irrationally uneasy, she would have been flattered. She forced a half-hearted smile to her lips and said thank you.

"Listen, Molly, I was wondering if-" Michael began.

She held up a hand to stop him. "Hold that thought. I have to-to visit the powder room. I'll be right back." She tried to sound as apologetic as possible as she slid her chair back and stood up.

Molly hurried to the ladies and leaned against the wall just inside the door. She spared a moment to take a deep breath, then pulled her mobile out of her purse and furiously began to text the current bane of her existence.

 **Where are you? Damn it, Sherlock, you promised. – M**

It was nearly two minutes later, when she'd resigned herself to going back out there and making some excuse as to why her 'boyfriend' had bailed on her, when her phone chimed.

 **No kiss? I really must be in trouble. – SH**

Really? That was what he chose to focus on? The lack of the 'x' she usually ended her texts with?

 **You don't deserve a kiss, virtual or otherwise. – M**

 **That's harsh. Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'kiss and make up'? - SH**

 **That's only for people who don't leave their friends hanging. Unless you're in hospital or actively saving someone's life at the moment, you need to get your arse over here and help me! – M**

Sixty long seconds without a reply, and Molly growled in frustration. "Fine. Fine. It will be fine. Michael's perfectly harmless. I'm just being silly. It's just a friendly dinner, over in an hour and a half, tops."

She was just about to drop her mobile into her purse when it chimed again. Molly quickly held it up and read the reply.

 **Quit hiding in the loo. I'm here. – SH**

Molly sagged in relief. Her phone chimed one last time.

 **X - SH**

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Sherlock stood when she approached the table, and pulled out her chair. As she slid into her seat, she saw a cluster of jonquils on the table in front of her. They were cradled in the sort of clear wrap that florists favoured, with a bright yellow ribbon tied around the stem.

Molly raised her shocked eyes to find Sherlock watching her closely as he slid into his chair, looking utterly contrite. "The case broke late this afternoon, and I've only just left Lestrade. Forgive me for being late?"

Her fingers brushed against soft petals. "Did you catch them?"

He raised an eyebrow and tilted his head as if he couldn't believe she was even asking. "Of course."

"Then you are forgiven." To her surprise, her irritation really was fading now that he was there. The flowers definitely helped. "Where did you get these?"

"I helped a florist prove he had no idea his delivery driver was smuggling stolen coins and gemstones in the funeral arrangements. I had Lestrade swing by the shoppe on the way here. Apparently, I forgot to inform him that it wasn't for the case until we were already there."

She giggled as she imagined how irritated Greg must have been. Sherlock smiled in return, then his eyes softened as he focused on her lips. Molly was almost positive that he had begun to lower his head toward hers just a fraction; and then Michael cleared his throat and the moment was gone.

Molly blushed, more embarrassed that she'd imagined that Sherlock had been about to kiss her than she was about momentarily forgetting Michael was sitting across the table. "Uhm, sorry. Sherlock, this is Michael Carlson, the friend I told you about. Michael, this is Sherlock Holmes, my . . ." They never did settle on what she was supposed to call him, since the 'B' word was verboten.

"Soon-to-be fiancé," Sherlock supplied. Her head whipped around to stare at him, stunned. He lifted her left hand and pressed a brief kiss against the back of it. "We're just waiting until we find the perfect ring to make it official."

Molly nearly snatched her hand back. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

Sherlock tucked their joined hands under the table to rest against his leg. He squeezed her fingers to remind her that they had an audience. "I know we agreed not to announce it to all and sundry, but most of our friends already know. What's one more?"

She dug her nails into his thigh in retaliation, and forced a smile to her lips. "If you're sure, darling."

He winced, but she wasn't sure if it was from the sting of her nails or the saccharine sweet 'darling'.

The waiter appeared with their wine and quickly took their order, promising to return with a carafe of water for Sherlock.

Once he was gone, Michael sat back in his chair and shook his head. "I can't believe you're engaged already. You haven't even been dating, what?" He appeared to be doing the math since the symposium in Brussels in his head. "Two months?"

"Nearly engaged," Sherlock clarified. "We haven't been dating that long, but we've known each other for years. Friends to lovers, if you will. I know her better than I know my own brother."

Molly almost rolled her eyes. Considering the enigmatic nature of the elder Holmes son and Sherlock's (sometimes feigned) avoidance of all things familial, he had set a rather low bar in his comparison.

Michael nodded slowly, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and Molly. "I haven't really heard that much about you." While it was true that she hadn't spoken about Sherlock by name that often, she had mentioned him more than a handful of times in the past. And even if she hadn't, it was rude to mention it to her almost fiancé. "Molly said you're a private detective?"

"Consulting," they both corrected at the same time.

"What's the difference?" Michael seemed genuinely confused.

"I take private clients when I'm bored or someone has a particularly interesting puzzle for me, the rest of the time I offer my services to the police as a consultant on their more difficult cases." Molly was rather proud that Sherlock managed to explain that without insulting the intelligence of anyone at NSY (or Michael).

She gently squeezed Sherlock's thigh to show her appreciation for his tact. The muscle beneath her hand tightened and flexed in response.

"As a matter of fact, that's how we met. I was working with a detective and the case brought us to the morgue at St Barts." She'd only ever seen the expression on his face once before, that brief moment in the hall in Howard Shilcott's building. "By the time I walked out of the room, I knew she was the most dangerous person I'd ever met."

"I'm sorry, what?" Michael asked. Molly was thankful he'd asked but she had no clue what Sherlock was talking about either.

"She made me want things I thought I would never be able to have. Things I foolishly denied us both for years." Sherlock lifted her fingers to his lips once again. "And now I can't imagine wanting to live a life without Molly in it."

Molly knew he was talking about their deep, albeit slightly unconventional friendship and she couldn't agree more. She loved Sherlock so much, and knew he loved her in return; the thought of losing that was . . . well, unthinkable.

She smiled and leaned up to press a quick kiss against his cheek.

Their food arrived and Molly pulled her hand free to reach for her napkin. "So, Michael, what are you planning to cover in your lectures?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

After dinner, Sherlock offered to make sure Michael made it back to his hotel safely. When he stepped off the kerb to flag down a cab, Michael leaned into her personal space to quietly reminder her that she was supposed to walk him around St Barts the next day.

Then he asked her out to lunch.

"My treat, of course. Someplace near the hospital . . . or the restaurant in my hotel has excellent reviews. That would be perfect, actually; I could show you my lecture notes. I'd like your input on a few things before I speak to Doctor Burtan."

Molly's jaw clenched. Oh, he probably thought he was so smooth. Inviting her up to look at his notes, the subtle reminder that he was here at Doctor Burtan's invitation and that Molly had been tasked with escorting him around London and the hospital. And the sheer nerve of him to do it with her almost fiancé standing not far away!

Her first instinct was to tell him to bugger off, but that little niggle of doubt that suggested she might have misunderstood him made her temper her tongue. "I'm not sure about lunch. I may need to spend my break catching up on a few things in the lab."

"Don't worry about that." Michael smiled, showing enough teeth to remind her of a small shark. "I'm sure Doctor Burtan can arrange for someone to fill in for a few hours."

"And here's your ride." Sherlock moved to Molly's side and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close against him. "All set to take you to the hotel. Off you pop." He titled his chin toward the vehicle idling nearby.

"Right then. It was a pleasure meeting you, Sherlock. Until tomorrow, Molly." Michael ducked into the cab and it pulled away a moment later.

As soon as the cab was out of sight, Molly stepped away from Sherlock and glared up at him. She searched for the words to ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, but he spoke first. "You're bursting to tell me off for the engagement thing, I can tell. If you don't mind, I'd prefer to be someplace warm and comfortable while I'm lectured. Yours is closer. Would you prefer to walk or a taxi?"

He had a point, it was chilly and she was dying to kick off her shoes. "Mine. Are you going to pay?" she asked with a hint of teasing suspicion.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've been reading John's blog again, haven't you?" He rolled his eyes and huffed. "Fine. Yes, I'll pay."

Even though she was still annoyed about the 'engagement thing' she couldn't help but grin for most of the ride to her place.

She'd barely managed put her jonquils in some water and dump her heels just inside her bedroom door when her mobile rang in the purse she'd left in the sitting room. "Pour me a glass of wine and I might, might consider telling you where I've hidden the ginger nuts."

He called over his shoulder as he walked into the kitchen, "Back of the junk drawer next to the sink. Tell Mary hello for me."

Molly fished her phone out of her bag, not bothering to question how he knew where the biscuits were or who was calling. "Hello, Mary." She tossed her purse on the table in front of her settee and sank into the soft cushions.

"So how did it go? Was he as creepy as you remembered? Did Sherlock scare him off? Was the food any good? Because John is taking me out on a date night next week and we'd like to try someplace new."

"Fine, yes, no, and yes in that order." Molly watched Sherlock pull out her junk drawer and fish around until he pulled out the fresh packet of ginger nuts, which he held up triumphantly. She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Uh oh. Didn't Sherlock make it clear you were taken? I knew I should have done it," Mary huffed. "I suppose it's too late now. Unless . . . Oh, what if I show up next time you three are all together and say that I'd been a complete pillock giving you up without a fight and beg you to take me back?"

Molly tried to interrupt, but Mary was on a roll. "We could say Sherlock was your rebound relationship. You know, completely meaningless, you were only in it for the sex, etc."

"Mary. You can't. He said we were practically engaged." She put her aching feet up on the table next to her discarded purse.

There was a moment of silence from the other end of the line. Then a puzzled, "Pardon?"

"He said we're just waiting until we find the perfect ring to make it official." Molly rested her head against the back of the settee and mimed eating a biscuit in the hopes that Sherlock would bring her some with her wine.

"Michael said that?" Mary asked.

"No! Sherlock." He looked up at the sound of his name. Molly shook her head.

"Oh my God!" Mary began to laugh hard enough that Molly could tell she was having trouble catching her breath.

Molly could hear John in the background, asking what happened.

"Sherlock . . . Sherlock proposed," Mary gasped in the midst of her laughter.

"What?!" Suddenly it was John's voice on the phone, and Molly realized he must have taken it away from Mary. "He what?"

"He didn't, not really, he just told-"

She didn't get to finish her explanation because Mary managed to wrestle the phone back from John. "Ignore him, Mols. So, Sherlock declared his intentions to make you the Mrs and that didn't scare the creeper off?"

"While Sherlock was getting a cab, he asked me to his hotel for lunch tomorrow. I mean, what is he expecting me to do, sneak around on my soon-to-be fiancé for a lunch time quickie?"

Suddenly there was a glass of wine dangling in front of her face. Molly took it with a grateful smile and looked up to see Sherlock's scowl. "You're not going to his hotel."

"Of course I'm not. I'm not stupid, Sherlock."

"I didn't—That's not what I meant." He ruffled both hands through his hair, then put them on his hips.

Mary's voice drew her attention away from him. "Is Sherlock there? Give him the phone."

Rather than argue, she held out the phone. "She wants to talk to you."

Sherlock looked at the mobile in her hand as if it were a snake preparing to strike. He swallowed hard and reluctantly reached out to take it. "Hello, Mary."

Molly sipped her wine and tried to figure out what Mary could possibly be saying with Sherlock's face as her only clue. He realized she was watching him and turned so that his back was to her.

"There's definitely something off about him . . . No, that won't . . . I agree, but . . . But . . . No, that won't be necessary. I-I can find something. No! I wouldn't do that. Do tell John to shut up." He stared up at the ceiling for several seconds. "Yes. Fine. No, I'll tell her. Goodnight, Mary."

He took a deep breath, then slowly turned and passed the phone back to her. His normal colour seemed to have drained from his face, and his eyes were focused somewhere around her knees as if he were attempting to avoid accidentally making eye contact.

"Sherlock? What's happened?"

Her wine glass was plucked out of her hand and drained in one go before he answered. "Mary's throwing us an engagement party on Saturday."

"I'm sorry?" Surely she'd misheard him.

He headed toward the kitchen to refill the glass (and probably to stay out of her reach). "Well, it's more of a dinner party where we'll be getting engaged. Try to act surprised."

Molly planted her feet on the floor and stood before moving across the room with as much menace as her tiny frame could muster. "Sherlock."

He filled the glass and slid it across the counter that divided the dining/sitting area from the kitchen toward her. Then he slid the half-empty packet of ginger nuts toward her as well, as if he were trying to placate her with biscuits and booze. "It's just going to be us and Mary and John. And Michael, of course. And a few of our friends. Who will all be in on the secret. Probably."

"I'm going to murder you. And then I'm going to cut you up into little pieces and scatter your parts across all seven continents so that no one will ever find you."

Sherlock scoffed. "Really, Molly, don't be overly dramatic. You'd never be able to get human remains to Antarctica."

His hand crept toward the biscuit packet and Molly snarled, "Touch another ginger nut and you really will be a dead man."

He pulled his hand back just as slowly. "Are you still planning to lead Michael around the hospital tomorrow?"

"Unfortunately."

Sherlock nodded. "Then I'll meet you for lunch."


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

Sherlock let himself into the lab as if he owned the place, just before eleven the next day.

Molly continued extolling the virtues of the hospital's newest digital microscope to Michael with only a brief pause to acknowledge Sherlock's presence, giving him a smile and a warning that one of the students had moved his fungal samples to another shelf in the cooler.

She was completely surprised when he took the long way around the lab tables to join her and Michael in front of the microscope in question.

"Hope I'm not interrupting, luv." Sherlock leaned down to press a quick kiss against Molly's cheek. She knew she was flushed. She just hoped Michael would put it down to a blush from canoodling with her not-quite-fiancé at work rather than a flush of arousal that was completely out of proportion to a simple buss on the cheek and a deliciously rumbled endearment.

"Actually, we were just about to-" Michael began, as Molly shook her head and squeaked, "Nope."

"Excellent." Sherlock slid his arm across Molly's shoulders and pulled her against his side. "I was getting bored at Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson has threatened to stop bringing me tea if I shoot the wall again."

Molly hummed in sympathetic understanding.

Michael blinked. "I'm sorry? Did you say 'shoot' the wall?"

Sherlock waved his free hand. "She complains, but Mrs Hudson always forgives me in the end."

She nudged her hip against his. "You were bored?" she reminded him.

"Excruciatingly. So, lunch?" Sherlock grinned and Michael, Molly noted, looked a bit put out.

Good.

"Sounds wonderful. Just let me clean up here and we can head up to the canteen," Molly cheerfully agreed.

"I was thinking something better than pork and pasta or dubious egg salad. How does Italian sound? I've already called ahead to Angelo's." Sherlock didn't wait for an answer, he just began repacking the various accessories for the digital microscope as if it was a task he was well acquainted with. Which he was, although he shouldn't have been as the department head's indulgence for the consulting detective only went so far. "Why don't you change out of your lab coat and get your bag, and we'll finish putting things away and meet you at the locker room, hmm?"

Molly hesitated for a moment, then awkwardly leaned up and brushed his cheek with her lips. The accursed flush returned, making her keep her head down as she hurried out of the lab.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Lunch went about as well as one would expect.

Sherlock was attentive in a way that was both flattering and mildly disconcerting.

Michael was clearly disgruntled, and Molly couldn't help but wonder exactly what Sherlock had said to him during the fifteen minutes they'd been alone while she'd been in the locker room.

She hadn't realized how hungry she was until the cab had pulled up in front of Angelo's. She'd been there several times with Sherlock, John, Mary and Rosie and knew how good the food was.

Angelo had taken her hand when Sherlock led her into the restaurant, Michael following a few steps behind. The older man had escorted her to an out of the way table and held out a chair for her. Once they were all seated, Angelo had handed Michael a menu and then asked Molly and Sherlock if they wanted their usual. She'd smiled and said "Please" even though she had no idea what 'the usual' would end up being as she tended to try something new each time she came. Angelo assured Michael that he'd return shortly for his order, then bustled off to deal with another table.

As lovely as the personal attention was, it was more than she'd ever received before (although Angelo always had favoured Sherlock and his companions when she'd joined them in the past). Sherlock must have explained the Michael situation when he had called to arrange a table earlier.

Sherlock had stretched at one point, his arm along the back of her chair and his thigh pressed solidly against hers, as he told an anecdote about one of his cases. Molly had found herself wondering what it would be like if they had really been dating. The casual touches, his fingers absentmindedly toying with the ends of her pony tail while he waited to see if she could figure out the solution to the mystery he'd presented, the pleased gleam in his eye when she worked it out without any additional prompting.

Sherlock had ridden back to Barts with them; although he stayed in the cab once they arrived, telling Molly he had work to do that afternoon, but he'd see her that evening.

Thankfully, Michael was scheduled to lecture all afternoon and Molly was free to get back to her work and enjoy the solitude.

Until she'd been called into her supervisor's office around three.

Someone ( _Michael, obviously_ ) had complained about non-hospital personnel having access to the labs. Considering Mike Stamford had also been present when she'd walked into the office, she knew the complaint wasn't going to carry much weight. She'd received the same reminder she'd been given the first time she'd been informed that Sherlock was consulting with NSY and would be using the lab.

"He's got friends in high places so we let him have certain privileges here as a favour, and those privileges can be revoked if need be. If he is being disruptive, do not hesitate to kick him out. If he is monopolizing resources needed for the hospital, put him on restriction. If he attempts to order you about, remind him that he is a guest, not your employer. I have met the man and let me assure you now—as I have assured every other member of this department—you will have my full backing to call security and have him escorted from the premises if he ever pushes you past the breaking point. Otherwise, we'll continue to let him be."

In other words, no changes to the status quo.

However, Molly was still fuming at Michael's interference when she got home just before five thirty.

She angrily kicked her shoes across the room and tried to whip her cardigan off, only to get tangled in the arms. It took a fair bit of twirling around and grunting before she managed to pull the offending garment off and toss it against the wall with a dull, unsatisfying thud. She almost left the discarded items on the ground where they'd fallen but being upset was no reason to start living like a slob.

Molly swept them up and stomped to her room to toss the shoes into her closet and the cardigan into her hamper. Then she dropped, face first, onto the bed and screamed into her pillow.

It wasn't fair.

Michael was supposed to have been her friend. He was supposed to be this nice guy, someone she could talk to without worrying about being attractive for (or to, for that matter) or giving out the wrong signals. Okay, she could understand how the one drunken phone call probably confused things a little. Yes, Michael had instigated the racier bits, but she'd eagerly participated at the time. She had thought they were on the same page once she'd explained why it had been a mistake.

A huge, huge, never to be repeated, mistake.

She sniffed and pressed her face deeper into the pillow. If she wasn't careful, she was going to cry and he really wasn't worth it.

The mattress dipped next to her and a large, warm hand settled on the small of her back. Molly didn't panic, as Sherlock's light cologne was almost as familiar to her as her own body wash.

"Did I do something that's going to require an apology," he asked.

Molly turned her head to offer him a small smile. "Not this time."

She rolled away from him, onto her back; and they both pretended not to notice the way his fingertips grazed a sliver of skin on her tummy where her blouse had come untucked in her tussle with the cardigan. Molly cleared her throat. "It's Michael. He tried to get you kicked out of the lab today. Well, Doctor Burtan didn't say who complained, but . . ."

"It was Michael," Sherlock finished for her. "He can't do that. Can he do that?"

"No," Molly assured him. "But I can, if you're being a wanker, so try to remember that."

"Duly noted." He leaned back and gestured toward the nearby bag he'd dropped on the floor. "I brought some of my things. If Michael comes over, he'll be expecting to see signs that I spend the night here if we're as serious about each other as we say we are."

"You do spend the night, all the time. And drink all the milk. And heaven forbid you ever change the empty loo roll." Molly frowned and sat up, shifting around so she could hang her legs over the side of the bed next to him. "Why would Michael come here? I'm certainly not going to invite him."

"Do you honestly think he wouldn't just invite himself, if he thought it might help break us up?"

She nudged his arm with her shoulder. "Fair enough. I don't know why you had to bring anything, though." She pointed toward her dresser. "You've got spare clothes in there and the closet. One of your dressing gowns is hanging off my bathroom door. You've got a toothbrush in the holder by the sink, deodorant and the stuff you put in your hair in the medicine cabinet. I stock your favourite biscuits and tea in the kitchen. And don't even get me started on what you've done to the wall in the guest room. My mum refuses to sleep in there now, because you left those double homicide photos up the last time she came to visit. You already have your stuff all over my house."

He froze, eyes wide and unfocused for several seconds. ". . . I do."

"If anything, I should be taking stuff to your place," Molly laughed. "Michael's much more likely to nose around there, especially since Mary's roped Mrs Hudson into co-hosting the engagement thing at Baker Street this weekend." Not that she could blame Mary. It would be best to keep Michael far away from the Watson house and Rosie (who would be staying home with a sitter). Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, had been more than happy to open up her home—and, by extension, Sherlock's—for the small party. Molly suspected that Mrs Hudson would also be more than happy to introduce Michael's face to the flat side of her frying pan if he so much as stepped foot in Baker Street uninvited.

Sherlock looked at her from the corner of his eye and nodded. "You should."

"I, what?" He couldn't be serious. She'd been joking when she'd suggested it.

He hopped up and headed toward her closet. "Pack a bag, Molly. You're moving to Baker Street."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Thankfully for Molly's sanity, 'moving to Baker Street' actually meant packing up a few books, some extra toiletries she'd had stored in the cupboard under the bathroom sink, something comfy that she might wear if she were lounging about the flat after a relaxing lie-in, and a satin cami/short set she only pulled out of the drawer when she wanted to feel particularly decadent.

She didn't want to think about how he even knew it existed, since she had never, ever worn it while he was staying over. Molly suspected there was going to be another lecture about respecting her privacy in the very near future.

Mrs Hudson bustled out of her flat when they arrived. She rushed forward to grab Molly's hands. "Oh, isn't this exciting? Don't you fret, Mary and I have everything under control. Saturday is going to be perfect."

Molly thanked her for going to all that trouble.

"It's my pleasure, dear. I never thought I'd see the day, our Sherlock getting engaged!"

Molly whipped her head around to look at Sherlock with panicked eyes. "It's-We're not-It's not real, Mrs Hudson."

"She's well aware of that, Molly. She thinks she's being clever." He grasped Molly's arm and gently tugged her free of Mrs Hudson's hold. He nudged Molly toward the stairs and frowned at his landlady.

"It is a bit funny," Mrs Hudson giggled.

Molly waited until they were in Sherlock's sitting room to speak. "Please tell me everyone knows why you're proposing on Saturday."

"Everyone does." Sherlock took her bag and set it on his desk, unbuckling the latch to flip it open.

Her relief was extremely short lived.

"Except for Grant." Sherlock pulled a half dozen paperbacks out of her bag.

"Grant? You mean Greg? You didn't warn Greg?"

He haphazardly tucked the books into several open spaces across his bookshelves. "Before I could mention why Mary was throwing a little dinner party, he'd asked if he could bring a date." Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her. "I've never even seen the woman. There was no way to tell if she'd be able to keep a secret or not, and I couldn't risk her letting something slip. I'll explain it to Grant when Michael's left town."

Molly gaped at him as if he'd lost his mind. "You're going to let Greg think we're engaged for an entire week? Do you have any idea how many people he's going to blab to in that time?"

Sherlock frowned. "Why would he tell anyone?"

Her groan was loud and tortured. "Of course he'll tell. It's the sort of gossip people live to spread. Sherlock Holmes getting married!"

"How is that different from Molly Hooper getting married?" he parroted right back in the same tone.

"That's different," Molly huffed. "I'm not famous."

"And thank fuck for that." Sherlock shook his head as he continued to dig through her bag. "It's a bloody nightmare." He pulled out her shampoo and conditioner and shoved them into her hands. "I'd be honoured if you chose to take my last name; but I'd completely understand if you wanted to keep your own, at least professionally, just to discourage the press from breathing down your neck at work."

"I'll keep it in mind."

They warily watched each other for several seconds until Sherlock broke and looked away. "You should put those in the bathroom." He gestured at her toiletries. "Feel free to move things to make room."

The short walk to the bathroom was a blur for her. Something odd had definitely happened, something relatively inconsequential and utterly momentous at the same time, and Molly had absolutely no idea what to think.

She stared at her reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. "What was that?"


End file.
